


Who wants to be in heaven

by Moonfreckle (Sunfreckle)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 1920's England, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Alternate Universe - Mob, Betaed, Dark Romance, Don't worry I don't do unhappy endings, Nonbinary Jehan, Other, Rated For Violence, Specific content warnings in author's note
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-01-30 20:47:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12661122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunfreckle/pseuds/Moonfreckle
Summary: …when you can be sending men to fucking hellLondon, 1925Being the head of the one of the strongest new gangs in London certainly has its perks. People can be very generous to a man of Montparnasse’s reputation. The streets might as well be paved with gold. Because this fine city is hungry enough to swallow down all the dirty money and smuggled booze a person could throw at it and Montparnasse has plenty of both. But tonight is not about gunpowder and blood. Tonight is going to be nothing but glittering light, dazzling music and dancing with his little bird and he is impatient for it to begin...





	Who wants to be in heaven

**Author's Note:**

> For Adrian, happy birthday ❤
> 
>  **Content warnings:** graphic violence, kidnapping, murder, blood, guns, knives, cigarettes, alcohol, racist/offensive language, misgendering, slight reference to the sex trade, references to the First World War, and – I suppose – the romanticizing of organized crime.

London allows the night to roll in as if it’s a profound relief to hide part of herself in darkness. In front of his mirror Montparnasse pays no attention to the fading light outside, he lit a lamp a while ago. With self-indulgent little movements he smooths his short hair, letting his fingers slip down the back of his neck to straighten the collar of his shirt and then the front of his waistcoat. He’s not perfectly satisfied, he never is, but he _is_ pleased. It’s a brand-new suit and it fits him perfectly. The kind of thing he always wanted but never had the money to buy. Not that he paid for this one, of course, but he didn’t steal it either. Montparnasse smiles. Funny thing that. He started out having to steal things, but by now that’s no longer necessary. People can be very generous to a man with a certain reputation. Once again, Montparnasse smiles. It’s ironic, really, he’s never been good with figures and here he is, living off them. Turning numbers on scraps of paper into solid coins. Montparnasse never was a betting man, but luckily the world around him is full of them. Full of people who think they _are_ good with figures, that they’re capable of beating the odds. Except no one beats the odds the Patron-Minette bookies deal with. Because Montparnasse doesn’t need to be good with figures. He just needs to be good with people. And he _is_ good with people. Very good.

“Mont?”

Montparnasse turns around with a grin. A grin that disappears as soon as he sees that it’s only Claquesous that has just entered the room. “Is Gueulemer not back yet?” he says impatiently.

Claquesous’ eyes shift, the right one gleaming behind his enamel mask. “He is…”

Montparnasse’s eyes narrow. “Then where is Jehan?” he demands.

They’re going out dancing tonight, for the first time in ages. He’s been working too much. Settling in London hasn’t been easy. This fine city is hungry enough to swallow down all the dirty money and smuggled booze a person could throw at it, but that didn’t mean the people currently in control of that trade were very willing to share their territory. Montparnasse hadn’t counted on their compliance, but he had been a little surprised by how eager his opposition seemed to be to die. Moving in on London territory has been a bloody affair and he is sure it has been hard on Jehan. He has neglected his little bird, but he will make up for it tonight. Tonight is going to be all glittering light and music instead of muffled screams in the dark and he is impatient for it to begin.

“Well?” he says, giving Claquesous a somewhat nettled look. “Bring them to me.”

Claquesous still doesn’t move, something like trepidation forming in the stiffness of his face and Montparnasse’s brow furrows.

“Do they not want to see me?” he asks, dismayed. Jehan always comes when he sends someone to fetch them, even when they’re angry with him.

Claquesous clears his throat, but no explanation leaves his parted lips.

The expression on Montparnasse’s face darkens. His first in command is _never_ hesitant when asked a direct question. “Sous,” he hisses. “ _Where_ is Jehan.”

Claquesous bows his head, but without averting his eyes and Montparnasse can clearly see the fear in them. “We- I don’t know.”

Montparnasse spits out a curse that makes the noise in the adjacent room go quiet instantly. He pushes past Claquesous without another word. Claquesous was not the one he sent to fetch Jehan. He should have. He should have sent him instead of Gueulemer. If that dumb brute let anything happen to Jehan- With his fists clenched he storms into the room where his men are sitting and drinking. Or at least they were a moment ago. Right now they have all risen from their seats and are staring at Montparnasse. Gueulemer is standing in the middle of the room, giant shoulders sagging anxiously.

“You!” Montparnasse snaps. “Where the _fuck_ is my little bird?”

“They- They weren’t there, Montparnasse,” Gueulemer stammers.

“Weren’t _where_ ,” Montparnasse growls. “You were supposed to be escorting them here.”

“They wanted to go by a shop,” he murmurs. “And I saw old Bill across the street while they were- I was only gone for a minute-”

Montparnasse stares at him. Gueulemer left Jehan. He _left_ them. “ _Where_ ,” he hisses. Perhaps something had frightened Jehan and they had brought themself to safety. They are quick and clever, they wouldn’t have stayed anywhere they didn’t feel safe.

The fear on Gueulemer’s face makes red flashes of anger spark in Montparnasse’s vision. If he is afraid, he is guilty.

Gueulemer forces a street name past his lips.

The back of Montparnasse’s hand collides with his face before he can finish the sentence.

“You let _my_ Jehan out of your sight, _one_ corner away from bloody _wop territory!”_

Gueulemer has the sense to double over and shrink to his knees before Montparnasse hits him again. All the other men stand and stare, frozen.

“I should kill you,” Montparnasse hisses, but instead he resolutely turns his back on him. Gueulemer is too valuable to get rid of. Loyalty and strength outweigh stupidity. But if Jehan- Montparnasse freezes those thoughts in place. Jehan will be back by his side before sunup. He will accept no alternative. “Babet!” he barks.

Babet is beside him instantly. “Yes, Mont?”

“If one of the wops took Jehan it’s because they want something,” he says, his voice low and menacing. “Get Gavroche in here. _Now_.”

◊

“Seems you were right, pet. Your knight in shining armour’s on his way.”

Jehan doesn’t lift up their eyes. They don’t want to look at the smirking face of the man in the doorway. He didn’t introduce himself, but Jehan knows who he is. Or at least what Montparnasse calls him. James Donati. He is one of the men Montparnasse told Jehan never to look in the eye if they should ever meet him. “I’ll greet him,” he had said. “But you mustn’t look at him.” Jehan knows to heed such orders, but it is not the reason they are not meeting his gaze right now.

Donati breathes out heavily through his nose. “ _Montparnasse_ ,” he drawls with disgust and Jehan nearly wrinkles their own nose at the way he butchers the name. “With his fucking airs and graces and his flock of brutes. Bunch of lowlifes prancing around like French royalty.” He sniffs sharply. “Brummie scum should have stayed out of London.”

Jehan’s lips are a thin line in their pale face. Names are important. They know that better than anybody. Montparnasse and his men wear their foreign aliases with pride. Montparnasse explained it to Jehan on the first night they spent together: they were all made what they are now in the muddy trenches of France, might as well have names to match. Donati is mocking something he doesn’t even begin to understand and Jehan hates him for it. Fire is dancing at the edge of their mind, but they stay cold. And silent.

Donati walks up to where they are sitting primly on a large crate and snorts. “Looks like you haven’t moved an inch.”

“You told me not to,” Jehan replies quietly.

“So I did,” Donati smirks. “Suppose Monty’s taste in women is a touch more demure than mine.”

Jehan bows their head a little lower. They don’t bother correcting Donati on any of those assumptions. Because he’s wrong on all counts, they _have_ moved. They needed to know if this room has more than one exit. It does. This is not a storage room, it’s a blocked off corridor. Jehan was glad when they saw they were being taken to a warehouse. Warehouses are messy. Messy and badly lit.

Donati opens the lantern lighting a small circle of the room and lights a new cigarette from the flame. Silently he holds it out to Jehan.

They bow their head lower still.

He scoffs. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he says. “I never raise my hand against a woman that doesn’t deserve it.”

Jehan can still feel the fingers on their arm, on the back of their neck, around their wrist… They stare at their clasped hands until their vision blurs and think of Montparnasse’s hands instead. Elegant, slender hands.

Donati has sat down beside them and is smoking with an unnecessary amount of noise. Even his breathing is loud. Everything about him takes up space. Jehan feels their own breath twist into knots in their chest. They have always been good at guessing time, they know it hasn’t been long enough yet. Montparnasse cannot be here yet. They have to sit tight and wait. _Wait_.

Donati hums. “When all this is over-”

Jehan knows what he means by that. They know and they refuse to think it, refuse to picture it, _refuse_ to admit it.

“-I’ll show you what a proper gentleman I am.” He smiles. “You’ve been real sweet so far, if you keep behaving I’ll cut you loose after. Let you go home to your husband, or family, or whoever it was Montparnasse snatched you from. Hm?”

The knots in Jehan’s chest cannot grow any tighter, but they push at that thought as hard as at the image of Montparnasse lying dead at their feet. The shadows of their past are easier to fight by now. They’re faded, at times they hardly seem real anymore. But the image of Montparnasse…broken-eyed and blood-splattered on the ground. That image is startlingly new. And Jehan has seen red smudged on his skin too many times. They know what it would look like. They can picture it all too vividly.

Don’t think of that now. Count. Count instead. Three more minutes just ticked by. That is three more minutes Montparnasse has come closer. They need to wait. Bide their time. As much as they want to kick and scream and bite, they _can’t_. Not yet. There’s a blade hidden under their skirt. Jehan has only ever threatened with it, but they know how to use it. They know how and they will. But not yet. They close their eyes again. The waiting is worse than the fear. Their lips start to move ever so slightly as they soundlessly sing one of the old war songs. The boys still sing them sometimes, when the nights are bad or they’ve had too much to drink…

_“We’re here, because we’re here, because we’re here, because we’re here. We’re here, because we’re here, because we’re here, because we’re…here…”_

Time is dragging. Time is cruel and cold and it’s choking the life out of Jehan. Words spill from their mouth before they can stop themself. “How do you know?” they murmur.

“Hm?” Donati grunts.

“How do you know he’s coming?” Jehan whispers. Fear is clawing at the corners of their mind.

“One of his street brats came to ask if I might have something that belonged to him,” Donati says sneeringly.

That must have been Gavroche or one of his brothers. Jehan feels cold, their stomach churns.

“Monty sure has some nerve,” Donati scoffs. “Talking about respect for another man’s possessions.” He looks at Jehan with a thin smile. “But he’s willing to bargain for you it seems.”

It was a mistake to look up into Donati’s face, Jehan quickly averts their eyes again. Montparnasse doesn’t bargain. Montparnasse doesn’t gamble. Montparnasse doesn’t enter into fights he cannot win. They hold still and try to keep breathing.

A muffled sound splits the newly restored silence and Jehan raises their head with a jerk. So does Donati. Jehan does not look at him. They do not look at anything. They wait. There is another terrible, choking silence and then, suddenly, the vicious rattle of gunfire.

“Well then,” Donati says smugly.

Jehan lets out a whimper and their feet slip on the rough floor. Shaking like a reed, they slide off the crate and onto the ground, away from Donati. He is still listening to the now very heavy silence and for a moment Jehan thinks he will not think to pay attention to them, but suddenly he leans towards them.

“Up off the floor, girl,” he orders.

Jehan turns away from him, shuddering and letting soft sounds of sadness spill pass their lips. He’s too close to them, bent over them, obscuring them from sight.

“You’ll soil your pretty dress and furs, pet,” Donati sneers. He lets out a rough laugh. “Vain bastard. I bet he binds you to his bed with golden chains at night.”

Jehan is still crouched on the floor, their left hand supporting their weight, their right nearly trembling as it slips up their thigh.

“ _Up_ ,” Donati snaps, losing his patience and he slams his hand down on the crate.

Jehan moves suddenly and sharply. The blade has barely enough time to flick out of its handle before Jehan drives it straight through Donati’s hand and into the wood below it.

The man screams and careers backwards, pulling himself free while Jehan stumbles to their feet and scrambles back the other way. They have hardly taken a single step, before the crack of a gun splits the air and Donati’s curses are abruptly cut off. He drops to the floor, all the breath knocked out of his body. There is a bullet lodged in his chest.

“That-” Montparnasse’s voice rings out from the dark. “-was for insinuating I would _ever_ keep Jehan with me against their will.” His voice is cold, but there is a core of red-hot fury in the words.

Donati groans and writhes and Jehan looks away from his grimacing face. Instead they glance up at Montparnasse, who has stepped forward from the shadows. His movements are composed and calculated, the outstretched hand holding the revolver is completely steady, but Jehan can see something unhinged in the glitter of his grey eyes. Montparnasse does not even look at them as he walks right up to his adversary, the revolver pointed squarely at his face. He plants his boot on the red bloom of the bullet wound, making Donati cry out. Jehan watches him look Donati over. Montparnasse’s eyes linger on his right hand. Jehan’s switchblade is still stuck in it. Montparnasse leans forward, putting even more weight on the foot crushing Donati’s ribs and he screams. He screams even louder when Montparnasse grips the mother-of-pearl handle of the knife and twists the blade viciously before pulling it out of his hand.

“ _That_ -“ Montparnasse says, weighing the bloody switchblade in his left hand as he straightens up again. “-was for making me do this in front of them.”

Donati is moving his lips and through the choked sounds escaping from his throat something like words are starting to form, but Jehan does not want to hear him speak. They don’t want to hear his voice ever again. They turn away with an abruptness that makes Montparnasse’s attention waver just a second. The moment that happens, the few steps that separate them become too much for Jehan. With a quick step they are by his side, just behind him, almost touching, looking down at Donati past Montparnasse’s left shoulder. Montparnasse raises the gun back to the broken man’s face and stares into his eyes.

“And this-” he whispers icily. “-is for touching what is mine.”

“M-” Donati begins.

Montparnasse pulls the trigger.

Jehan did not close their eyes and they are not sorry, but they do feel ill. They can feel the colour draining from their face and they cast their eyes down so they don’t have to see any more of the blood.

Montparnasse still does not look at them. He puts away his weapon, bends down, and wipes the bloody switchblade on the Donati’s formerly white shirt. When it’s as clean as he can get it, he clicks back the blade and pockets it. Then, slowly, he gets to his feet, turns his back on the dead man and takes off his gloves.

Jehan looks at him, trying not to breathe in the heavy scent of death, waiting for Montparnasse to finally meet their eyes. The black gloves disappear into one of his pockets and Montparnasse lifts his eyes to theirs. Jehan can already see the change. The cold anger is gone now, but the unhinged spark has made way for something frantic that Montparnasse is clearly barely reining in.

“Jehan…” he says and his voice is so low that they know rather than hear he is saying their name.

“I’m fine,” they say softly and they even manage a smile. Montparnasse came for them like they knew he would.

For a moment it looks like Montparnasse is about to shake his head, but instead he reaches into the inner pocket of his coat and takes out a white handkerchief and a small crystal vial. “I got blood on you,” he murmurs, dabbing rose water onto the handkerchief and carefully taking Jehan’s right hand in his.

“I think I did that actually,” Jehan says, smile trembling.

Montparnasse makes an odd sound at the back of his throat. He wipes away the specks of blood on Jehan’s hand and wrist and then looks back into their face. His movements are very gentle, but it’s almost as if he’s trying to touch them as little as possible. Like they’re likely to break, or start running.

“Is there blood on my dress?” Jehan asks quietly. They haven’t looked yet. They don’t want to.

“A little,” Montparnasse replies, equally quiet. He is still looking at them with that nearly frantic expression in his eyes.

Jehan puts their hands on his chest, spreading their fingers against his coat. “None of them touched me,” they assure him.

Montparnasse’s complexion hardly allows him to grow paler, but he might have. “I know,” he says roughly.

“If they had they would have found my knife,” Jehan murmurs.

“I _know_ ,” he almost snaps.

Jehan shuts their mouth.

Montparnasse glances at the body on the floor. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have killed him so quickly.”

He slips the handkerchief and the vial into the same pocket as the switchblade and grabs both of Jehan’s hands with his own. This time he holds them properly, like he doesn’t want to let go, the way Jehan wants him to hold them. For a moment he closes his eyes. He breathes out slowly and when he breathes back in and looks at them, Jehan finally sees the softening of his features that they have been waiting for.

“Jehan,” he breathes, and his voice sounds right this time. Softer. How he’s supposed to sound when talking to them. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Jehan says and their voice is firm enough to convince him for now.

He squeezes their hands and his eyebrows twitch into a self-reproaching frown. “Jehan, I will _never_ let that happen again.”

Jehan shakes their head. That is a conversation they will have later. “Take me home,” they say.

“Yes,” Montparnasse sighs. He wraps an arm around them and leads them out of there room the way he entered.

There is hardly any light, but Jehan’s feet are right next to Montparnasse’s, they don’t need light.

“How did you convince him to keep you apart?” Montparnasse asks suddenly.

Jehan smiles faintly. That really hadn’t been very hard. “I told them that you’d shoot on sight if you saw me, but that you’d be cautious and try to bargain if you didn’t.” That is of course the opposite of what he would do. Jehan knew Montparnasse and his crew would be able to kill a gang double their size before their opponents had even raised their weapons, but they never would have dared to attack if Jehan was anywhere near the line of fire.

Montparnasse lets out a sharp laugh. “And he believed you?”

“No questions asked,” Jehan replies airily. Donati had underestimated them. Lots of people did. Montparnasse had, once upon a time.

“Pretentious Italian,” Montparnasse sniffs. His arm is wrapped around their waist now, the hesitation to touch them from before changed to a complete unwillingness to let go of them at all. But that is the sort of affection Jehan is used to, it steadies them. To prove how far they are from wanting to escape his grip they lean into him, resting their head against his arm for a moment as they walk.

Montparnasse leads them outside, where his men are waiting anxiously. Some visibly breathe with relief when they exit the building, but none of them make a sound. In the dark, smelling like blood and gunpowder, they look like a crowd of devils. But Jehan has seen them differently. They’ve heard Babet play the violin, they’ve seen Claquesous smile through the shrapnel scars behind his mask, they know how Brujon can dance. Most importantly, these devils have come to their rescue, and they smell like blood and gunpowder too… Montparnasse gives a sharp nod to Claquesous and tries to move Jehan along immediately, but Jehan holds still when they spot Gueulemer.

He has a nasty red mark on one side of his face, already dark enough to be seen even in this poor lighting. His large shoulders are hunched and he fixes his eyes on Jehan anxiously. “I’m sorry,” he blurts out.

Jehan smiles at him and extends a delicate hand. “It wasn’t your fault.” They can hear the angry sound Montparnasse makes at the back of his throat, but they ignore it. They also see Gueulemer’s eyes flit anxiously to his boss’ face before awkwardly touching their outstretched hand. Jehan gives his rough fingers a short squeeze. “No harm done,” they say, sounding as cheerful as they can. “Once I have a new dress, I’ll have forgotten all about this.”

Gueulemer bows his head, drops his hand to his side as soon as Jehan retracts theirs and glances fearfully at Montparnasse again.

Montparnasse lets out a slow breath. Jehan glances up at him, raising their eyebrows ever so slightly. “You heard them,” Montparnasse says, his voice is still dark, but not quite resentful. “Get my little bird a new dress and you’re forgiven.”

“Yessir,” Gueulemer breathes, face flushed with relief.

The other men breathe a collective sigh as well. They all know that Gueulemer will not be forgiven this easily, but this at least means that he will be forgiven at length. It means that Montparnasse will not punish him. Or rather, that Jehan will not let him.

“Sous,” Montparnasse says stiffly.

“Ready,” Claquesous nods and he moves towards the waiting car as Babet starts to give the rest of the men their instructions.

Jehan allows Montparnasse to help them into the car while Claquesous gets behind the wheel and Brujon runs to the front to start it. “Where’s Gav?” they mutter as soon as Montparnasse has closed the door.

“Sent him back home,” Montparnasse says. “He did good.”

Jehan nods. There is still a sick feeling in the pit of their stomach that they have to untangle, but one of its coils has loosened now. They let themself slide against Montparnasse and he wraps an arm around them. Jehan buries their face in his shoulder. They were meant to go dancing tonight. Tonight was meant to be champagne and pearls and music, their own brand of paradise. Instead they got this. Their fingers slide under Montparnasse’s coat and they sink even more into his frame, but it’s not his warmth that is thawing the fear in their limbs, it’s a smouldering anger that slowly wins in strength.

◊

During the ride back to Jehan’s apartment neither Montparnasse nor Jehan speak a word. Claquesous drives without instructions. It is as clear to him as it is to them that they should go to Jehan’s place and not Montparnasse’s headquarters. All the harm that was done tonight was of Montparnasse’s make, now the recovery must take place in Jehan’s domain.

Montparnasse is not sure how much recovery that will be. At the moment Jehan is curled up against him, their breath soft against his neck, but they seem very far away. He’s making an effort to keep his mind in the present himself. Whenever he lets his thoughts wander, a bitterness burns in his throat that he can barely swallow. His negligence could have gotten Jehan killed. He swallows hard and tries to breathe out the venom without disturbing Jehan. Donati and his goons are dead, but that’s not enough to wipe out his whole network. What happened tonight means a war. More blood and gunpowder, no time for dancing.

“Parnasse?” Jehan mumbles.

“Yes, my love?” Montparnasse breathes, pushing the whole world from his mind in favour of them.

“Are we almost there?”

Montparnasse glances outside. Even in the dark the streets are familiar. “Almost,” he says.

“Good,” Jehan hums.

When Claquesous pulls up outside Jehan’s building, Jehan is out of the car before Montparnasse gets a chance to help them. They rush to the front door to unlock it. Montparnasse closes the car door and leans through the window for just a moment to speak to Claquesous.

“Alright, Mont?” he asks, voice low.

“Check up on Ponine and the kids before you go home,” Montparnasse replies instead of answering. “I figure we have a day before things go sour.”

“Right,” Claquesous nods. He glances past Montparnasse at Jehan, who is fumbling with their keys, but doesn’t say anything. “Night then.”

“Get some rest, Sous,” Montparnasse orders grimly. “We’re going to be walking straight into hell.”

Claquesous raises his face and actually grins. “And here I thought I’d have time to start feeling homesick.”

Montparnasse grins back at him and pushes away from the car. He walks to Jehan’s side as it drives off and is behind them just as they manage to unlock the door. Their hands are shaking and Montparnasse feels a pang that is a composite note of guilt, concern and fury.

“Jehan,” he hums, putting a hand on theirs.

“I just need a bath,” Jehan breathes, offering him a shaky smile. “That’s all.”

Montparnasse doesn’t argue, he nods and follows them inside and up the stairs to their apartment. Jehan’s place is very different from his. Less filled with finery, but adorned with more genuine affection. Every single object in this place is loved. The many books, the gramophone, the writing desk strewn with papers, the dressing table with its mirror adorned with pressed flowers.

“I’ll only be a minute,” Jehan says softly, stepping out of their shoes. “Put some music on?”

Montparnasse smirks. “That’s exactly what you said the first time I came back with you.”

A smile flashes on their face that almost drives the shocked edge from their eyes. “I know.” They turn around and slip out of their dress, letting it slide off their shoulders and onto the floor, before padding to the bathroom.

Montparnasse walks after them, but doesn’t try to open the door they softly close behind them. He leans over to pick up their dress instead. He runs the tasselled fabric through his hands and his eyes linger on a few spats of red on the soft pink. Maybe Jehan still hasn’t seen them yet. He takes off his cap and coat and wraps the dress in the folds of his coat. He doesn’t want Jehan trying to wash this, but he does not want them to throw it away either. He will keep it. As a reminder. Both of his own near failure to protect them and of what they are capable of… It really had not been his doing, this blood on their dress. It was the stab wound, not the gunshot that had produced it.

Jehan makes very little sound in the adjoining room, but Montparnasse hears enough to be assured that they are alright. He walks to the full-length mirror in the corner of the room and inspects his own clothes. Not a smudge of powder, blood or soot. He doesn’t bother looking at his coat.

“No music to your liking?” Jehan raises their voice from behind the closed door. They sound normal, playful even.

Montparnasse is relieved. “Forgive me,” he calls back. “I was distracted.”

“By the thought of me, I hope,” Jehan replies. Their voice is definitely playful now, light and teasing.

“Is there anything else that ever manages to muddle my mind, little bird?” Montparnasse says smoothly. He walks over to the gramophone and selects a record.

Soft music, soft light. When he met them, Montparnasse thought these things came naturally to Jehan. In a way they did, Jehan was born to them, but not in the way they had them now. They had fought for the softness they possessed now. Fought with vicious claws.

Montparnasse sits down on the sofa and closes his eyes for a moment. This place smells like Jehan. Like flowers, both fresh and pressed, and like perfume and ink. With the music murmuring in the background and the lamplight trickling vaguely through his lashes it is nearly perfect. Perfect apart from the stinging memory of everything else that happened this night.

The sound of a door opening makes Montparnasse open his eyes also. He looks towards the door, sitting up in the process.

Jehan emerges from the bathroom, skin freshly washed and rosy and dressed in pale silk. Their hair hangs loosely down their shoulders and Montparnasse knows he’s smiling without even meaning to.

Jehan smiles back. A proper smile, warm and easy. They don’t look around the room for their dress. They do not look around at all, they only look at him.

Montparnasse allows the room to fade away a little, drinking in the sight of Jehan’s form in the hazy lamplight. He remembers the first time he ever laid eyes on them, in that noisy club. Clamour and flashy colours all around and Jehan shining softly in the midst of it all, looking like a wildflower among hothouse roses. His gaze freezes when his eyes glide past their slender arms. Only now Montparnasse sees a faint redness to the skin of their right arm. That will be a bruise tomorrow. Another man left the imprints of his fingers on his Jehan. Bloody red swirls viciously in Montparnasse’s mind, but he swallows it all. With a gentle look he holds out his hand to Jehan. The only hands allowed to touch them are his. Hands that will _never_ hurt them.

“What are you scowling for, my love,” Jehan teases, taking his hand and coming to stand before him. “I thought you liked this gown.”

Montparnasse doesn’t answer. He looks at them, carefully this time, minutely. There are no other marks in sight.

He will not ask tonight, he will not ask tomorrow, but Jehan must tell him every single thing they did. And who did it. If any of them are still alive, they must die.

“Do something for me?” Jehan hums, letting their hand slide from his and turning to the side table.

“Anything,” Montparnasse replies, and he means it.

“You have never treated me as a porcelain doll, don’t start now.” They hand him a freshly poured glass of whiskey.

Montparnasse takes it and looks up at them with half a smile. “Porcelain is too poor for you, beloved.”

Jehan smiles and Montparnasse is delighted to see the true sparks of pleasure back in their eyes. “And don’t you forget it,” they laugh softly.

Hearing them laugh relaxes Montparnasse and more importantly, it silences the hateful snarling at the back of his mind. He feels the tension in his shoulders fall away and watches them walk to their dressing table. They sit down, letting the silk drape around their legs and lean towards the mirror. With graceful movements, that Montparnasse enjoys all the more for knowing they are partly for his benefit, Jehan takes up their brush and begins to run it through their hair.

For a while there is nothing to be heard but soft music and gentle breathing, but then Jehan hums, without looking up from their mirror: “How important was Donati?”

“Important enough,” Montparnasse hums. He trusts Jehan to understand what that means.

It seems they do, as they only nod silently. They keep brushing their hair until it is a cascade of red coming down in gentle waves. Only then do they put their brush away and turn around on their seat.

Montparnasse hasn’t taken his eyes off them all this time.

“What will happen now that he’s dead?” Jehan asks, folding their hands in their lap.

“We don’t have to think about that now,” Montparnasse says gently, but there is a sharpness in the curve of Jehan’s mouth. They are not talking about this for his benefit.

“What will happen?” they repeat.

“Someone from Donati’s lower ranks will try to take over,” Montparnasse replies, his eyes gazing earnestly into theirs.

“Who?” Jehan asks. The sharpness is becoming more noticeable, but Montparnasse can tell it’s not directed towards him.

“We killed most of their key players,” he muses. “I suppose… Lee or Rocco…”

“Not Rocco,” Jehan says. “I saw him. He was afraid of Donati…”

Montparnasse frowns slightly. “You saw Rocco?” he enquires.

“Yes,” Jehan says. “The ones that grabbed me took me to his restaurant first. That is where Donati came to collect me.”

The sting at the back of Montparnasse’s mind is vicious, but it is a dampened by the look on Jehan’s face. It is still sharp, but also thoughtful, almost calculating. They aren’t in distress, not anymore.

“I think he wants out,” they say. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he runs now.”

“Really?” Montparnasse hums. That left only Lee with enough influence to take over and he was not at all well liked. Him taking Donati’s place probably wouldn’t go very smoothly. “It’ll be Lee then,” he says.

There is a slight curve in Jehan’s eyebrows that speaks of distaste. “Isn’t Lee the one that runs the club?” they say.

“Yes,” Montparnasse nods.

Jehan’s expression cools a little further. “It’s not a very nice club.”

“No indeed,” he agrees. Lee has a habit of mistreating his human capital. Fauntleroy has told him about it several times. Montparnasse glances at Jehan, taking in the flicker of disturbed thoughts in their eyes. Something is brewing behind those eyes and he needs to know what it is. “Care to tell me what you’re thinking, little bird?” he coaxes.

It’s a while before Jehan answers, but when they do, their voice is smooth and composed. “I was just thinking…you’d do a much better job of running it than Lee.”

“The club?” Montparnasse smirks. “Or Donati’s territory.”

Jehan’s is looking at him with earnest intensity. “Both,” they say simply.

Montparnasse purses his lips and makes a beckoning motion. There is a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, but he holds it in for now. Jehan rises from their seat and comes to sit on his knee. The edge to the look on their face has softened to a polished determination. With a movement between a caress and an embrace Montparnasse wraps one arm loosely around their waist and lightly touches their chin to make them look at him.

“Would you like that?” he asks. “Me taking over?” He slants his head. “It might be done… Give Rocco a hint to disappear. Give Lee a _hand_ with disappearing… Assimilate whatever of their business is useful to me, dismantle the rest…”

Jehan sits on his lap, all softness and silk and replies, as if Montparnasse has asked no question graver than which flowers they’d prefer on their dressing table: “Yes, I’d like _everything_ Donati had to disappear.”

Their voice is as light as a song and Montparnasse smiles. “What would you call that?” he asks amusedly. His fingers brush past their cheek again. “Poetic justice?”

They smile sweetly back at him. “How about revenge?”

Montparnasse’s smile twitches into a grin. “Vicious little bird,” he hums approvingly. He gently brushes their long hair out of their face and tucks it behind their ear, admiring the curve of their neck. He should have known Jehan would not let this touch them. He shouldn’t have forgotten about the core of diamond in the silk.

Jehan lifts their head, shivering pleasantly under his touch, and glances away from Montparnasse, towards the dressing table mirror that reflects them both. “I’m sure a lot of people would be a lot better off with you in charge,” they say.

“Kind little bird,” Montparnasse says lovingly and he softly kisses their neck.

Jehan’s skin flushes pink and they turn their face towards Montparnasse again. He smiles at them, because there’s nothing about them that doesn’t make him smile. Their beauty and their fearlessness, their softness and their unrestraint, the sweetness in their smile and the fire in their eyes. Jehan will have their wish. Even if their revenge had not so exactly suited his ambition, he would have done everything in his power to make it happen. Whatever Jehan asks for, he will give them. He’d rip apart whoever dares to hurt them, but he’d spare even a traitor if they told him to.

There is no one, past or present, that has a hold on him like they do. Montparnasse knows this. Jehan knows this. And in return they are his.

“I’ll make it happen,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to their slightly parted lips. “There will be nothing left of what he had, all of it will be ours.” He’ll steal the whole of London for Jehan if he has to, whatever they want, whenever they want it.

Jehan kisses him back, their lips sweet against his and their hair tumbling soft past his face. Stealing each other’s breath, they turn the past night into a brilliant promise for the future. When Jehan pulls away it is only far enough to take in a gasping breath. Their foreheads are still touching and they are still the only thing he sees.

“My little bird,” he sighs.

Montparnasse feels the words Jehan breathes against him in reply before he hears them: “My wolf in gentleman’s clothing...”

Their smiles mingle as their mouths moves against each other again and outside in the dark, London shudders in the night.

**Author's Note:**

> This was pure indulgence to write (I spent a lot more time on it than I’m willing to admit). Have I ever mentioned how weak I am for criminal romances? 
> 
> EDIT: There is now a [first-meeting prequel for this story](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16460774).
> 
> Anyway, this story was 100% inspired by this photo shoot ([x](http://montparnassee.tumblr.com/post/164614279697/well-lit-streets-discourage-sin-but-dont-overdo), [x](http://montparnassee.tumblr.com/post/164614483527/they-smashed-up-things-and-creatures-and-then)) so I warmly recommend you give them a look while I go wash the blood off my hands ❤
> 
> Before anyone asks, yes, I do have ideas about what all the Amis are in this, but as it would necessarily concern immigrants, the IRA and the communist movement, I have decided to stay very far away from all that. Let's just leave it at Montparnasse and Jehan's dark romance...
> 
> PS. The title is a quote from Peaky Blinders, which I watched obsessively under the guise of research. Oh, and Sous is wearing a prosthetic mask as made for some WWI vets back in the day: [source](http://www.wondersandmarvels.com/2014/07/mending-the-scars-of-world-war-i.html).


End file.
